John's Idea
by The Create
Summary: John has an idea that leads him to discover the truth about his friends death. Second chapter is the same exact story, except with a Johnlock ending. (So whatever you're into). First Sherlock fix, would love reviews!
1. Chapter 1

An idea is not a seed, it is a parasite.  
John had very recently curled himself tightly on his chair, wearing comfy clothes and watching the American movie Inception. He got bored and fell asleep.  
Normalcy had subtlety snuck its way back into the army doctor's life after the incident at Bart's. He had a stable job, he had a nice new place, he stayed in touch with old friends. He should have been happy, and maybe he was sometimes, but of course the memory still hung like an ugly wasp nest in the back of his mind. Sherlock had died.  
But the memory had changed from this morning, from its normal harsh reality to one that seems more like a bad dream. It was because of what Mycroft had told him earlier that day, when he was over for a very rare visit.  
"I take that you appreciate me calling you for once," Mycroft said with an awkward smile.  
"Yes, but I wouldn't have been too upset if your bloody black car had picked me up on my way to the market," replied John. "Nostalgia you know."  
Mycroft laughed, "None the less, I am glad you are doing well. We were all very concerned about you in those first months."  
It had been sixth months since Reichenbach. Mycroft was referring to a time where John had stayed in bed for a week straight and Molly had to quite literally go to his home and slap him out of it.  
"Yeah, the denial stage was tough but I'm out of that trench," John sipped his tea. "I just had to convince myself that your brother wasn't going to zombie his way out of his grave."  
Mycroft laughed uncomfortably, John obviously had developed a strain of Gallows humor, "Well if anyone would have the energy to pull that off, it would be my brother."  
They both smiled, but Mycroft wished he hadn't said that. Sherlock would definitely have the energy to cheat death, going by the fact that the man himself had just been over for tea. The last thing he wanted was for John to feed off a small possibility that Sherlock survived.  
The idea didn't register to John until he was home lying in his bed. It was quiet and dark and Mycroft echoed in his mind.  
_If anyone could have the energy to pull that off, it would be my brother._  
Of course he didn't think that Sherlock would actually zombie out his grave, that would be completely ridiculous. Yet he couldn't help a certain image bringing itself up behind his eyes. A certain plant.  
It was on the shoes of the man who kidnapped the two children. His old professor had told him something about it, something significant... What was that?  
He remembered and sat up quickly. It could make it seem like you had no pulse. It wasn't to hard to come by. Sherlock could have found some and used it to make it seem...  
What the hell is wrong with me? John thought. He was forgetting the little detail about Sherlock actually falling the length of the building. The little detail about his bloody face on the pavement.  
That thought made him shudder. He shrugged off the theory and tried to get some sleep, quite unsuccessfully.  
Molly invited him for lunch a week later. He was very surprised when she showed up in a shiny new Mazda 3.  
"Wow Molly, how'd you swing that?"  
Molly smiled sweetly, "I make more than you think John."  
Another memory flooded John's mind. Sherlock, Lestrade, and him were standing around a grey Mazda.  
"How much blood was on the seat?" Sherlock had asked Lestrade.  
"About a pint."  
But John remembered that it was exactly a pint. The man used his own blood to fake his own death. He wonder how much blood had been on Sherlock...  
"John? What are you thinking about?" Molly noticed him staring suspiciously into space.  
He snapped out of it, "Nothing, zoning out." He changed the subject back to her car.  
Once again John was in his bed, staring thoughtfully into the dark of his ceiling.  
Sherlock could have taken the plant and used a store of his own blood, stored somewhere on his person, and made it look as though...  
Why do I do this to myself? He turned on his side and sighed deeply. The fact was he saw it, he saw his friend jump and he saw him land, from beginning to end. Despite everything Sherlock was, he was still a man, and no one could have survived that.  
Yet still something nagged incessantly with the continuity of that thought. Something was incorrect. But John ignored the nag, and tried yet again to fall asleep, failing miserably.  
On occasion, Lestrade would ask John to help them out. John usually did so with reluctance, but this time he felt a lot more eager. Lestrade was dealing with something strange.  
"Nobody heard gunfire, the door was locked from the inside, yet here we have a dead man, shot through the head."  
"Did you say the window was open?" John asked, and Greg nodded.  
"I think it's safe to assume that's where our bullet came from."  
"Right, but the only vantage point through that window is very far to get a shot this precise."  
John nodded, "So we must be dealing with a real professional. Most likely a hired professional."  
"If he is hired, he's the best money can buy. I've never known any criminal can shoot like that," Greg shook his head in disbelief. "A lot of people hate this man, and most of those people are rich and were at this party. We have a lot of suspects."  
"Maybe we should look at some pictures of wanted assassins, and maybe we'll recognize one here."  
Lestrade seem wary of that idea. But John picked out his phone.  
"I know someone that can get that for us." He phoned Mycroft.  
Mycroft was there in fifteen minutes, followed by his slightly hunchbacked record keeper who insisted on coming, "I understand your request, John, but what makes you think that one of Moriarty's old comrades would be behind this?"

"Because what else is an unemployed master sniper going to do in his free time other than freelance?" John stated. There was only three candid pictures. A large bald ruffian fellow, a tall homely female with ratty hair, and a blurry average looking blonde chap in aviators. The latter photo was not labelled with a name.  
"I'd put my money on this man," indicated Mycroft about the blonde man. "He was the most illusive of the men, we don't even know his name. All we have is this damn blurry photograph."  
"He was Moriarty's right hand man," the record keeper sounded like he had something lodged in his throat and his face moved stiffly and awkwardly.  
They kept the images as references and first took to interrogating the man's wife, who appeared to be in shambles. Her blubbering didn't get them any further along. They then asked about the pictures. The first three showed no sign of recognition in her puffy face. When they showed suspect number one, however, she glanced quickly into the small group of confused party goers standing by.  
"What? Do you recognize this man? Is he here?" Lestrade looked at her harshly.  
She jumped at his antagonistic outburst, "No, I just...for a moment... Thought he looked familiar but..."  
John looked into the group of people looking for the one feature he could truly recognize. Not a single person was blonde like the illusive assassin.  
"Could be wearing a wig," said the record keeper, as if he read John's mind. John instantly began looking at the edges of everyone's hair.  
"I can't tell, he might not even be here."  
"The picture looked familiar," the record keeper said sternly to the wife, with a lot of control in his weird voice.  
"Who does it look like?"  
Two innocent and well dressed men exchanged uneasy glances.  
She looked horrified and mumbled, "Well no one really, he just had similar cheekbones. He honestly doesn't look like him."  
"WHO?!" Asked the keeper with baritone authority.  
"M-mister Count," she squeaked.  
People backed quickly from the confused man in question. He was average height and thick build, with black hair.  
"Excuse me?" Mr. Count looked offended. "Am I being accused of something?"  
She was right however, his features were quite similar to the man in the picture. John imagined sunglasses over his eyes and they were a match. He couldn't be sure though.  
Mycroft stepped forward quietly until he was in front of Count.  
"Would you like to know a secret?"  
"What? What is this?" Mr. Count looked ready to run out of there.  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "Mr. Hocksler and I are much better at finding out things than we let on." He then paused dramatically before saying, "Sebastian Moran." He had known the man's name all along.  
The man's eyes widened visibly but he still maintained his befuddlement, "Who?"  
Mr. Hocksler strode forward, back more noticeably hunched than before, "Quite possibly you, if I can get a look at your scalp." Before the man could even protest, Hocksler pulled the top of his down to eye level, then forcefully pushed him away.  
"Just like I thought, your skin is black from the hair dye you so recently administered."  
Mister Count, or rather Moran, decided the best plan of action was to run for it. John tackled him before he got very far. He demanded to know where he hid his weapon. John scoffed at the cliché when he told him it was behind a bush.  
Defeated, the assassin complied with the army doctor who pushed him into Lestrade's police car. Sebastian sat with a silent smirk the entire way, obviously up to something.  
"I admired your gun," said Lestrade. "Very sophisticated silencer."  
"Oh thanks, you are too kind," Moran muttered sarcastically. "Asshole."

John turned around, "I'd keep quiet if I were you."

Sebastian laughed, "You know, your face looks different when it's not in my crosshairs."

"Aaahaa!" exclaimed John. "So you were our red laser friend at the pool."

"Guilty as charged," the criminal said ironically, making John chuckle.

That night was very restful for John, a dangerous criminal and advocate in his friends death was behind bars. He had a strange dream however.

John was driving a garbage truck. He got very tired and pulled to the side of the rode, next to St. Bart's. He started singing a hit song when suddenly...

Smack.

Sherlock had fallen outside the window, onto the sidewalk. John screamed, and the song he was whistling continued to play on the radio, quite loudly. He jumped into the passenger seat and pulled desperately at the handle, to get to his friend. The door wouldn't open, and the truck began to pull away on its own.

"NO!" John shouted and smacked the door with all his force. The truck kept driving though, pulling him further and further away. The music got so loud that...

John woke up to his radio alarm blaring.

It was such a strange dream to have, and he thought for a good ten minutes about its possible meanings. He replayed it a few times, as an attempt to not forget it. But he could help thinking he had derived it from an actual memory. A memory of...

That's it! He had see a garbage truck pull away from Bart's that terrible day. Why was he remembering it? Maybe he thought it was strange that the truck had left, considering a man had just killed himself right outside the window. Maybe...there was a reason he drove away from the scene... Maybe...maybe...

Stop it John. The man wasn't looking, he mustn't of seen and pulled out before he noticed people gather. And the most unarguable fact of the matter was that John had seen the entire fall.

But that didn't feel true either. He had seen the beginning of the plummet, and he had seen him on the sidewalk. It felt almost as if it were just his brain, filling in the gap in the middle because...

He hadn't seen the middle.

How could he have forgotten about the biker! That idiot kid that had the worst possible timing.

Or the best possible timing, depending on who's asking. But who else would be asking?

John spent the rest of his day concentrating hard on his theories. Alone, they were stupid, but as he pieced them together, he couldn't help but wonder...

It was very distracting. Only when Lestrade called him around 4 did he snap out of his daydreaming.

"Moran wants to talk to you."

"Oh goody," said John. "This should be interesting."

Moran's skin was dull and grey looking as he sat shivering in the interrogation room. The two men observed him through the two way mirror.

"I have something important to tell you before you go in there," Greg told John. John turned around.

"Apparently Moran had a good friend at the prison, a very helpful guard."

John furrowed his brow in confusion and Greg continued.

"We arrested that helpful guard yesterday because we found out an entire plot for a prison breakout between these two."

John smiled, "So that's why Seb here was so cooperative, he thought he'd be able to spring himself out under our noses."

"We're a good three steps ahead of this psycho, thanks to an anonymous tipper."

John felt smug and satisfied, and small bit happy knowing Sherlock would be proud.

"How much you wanna bet that tipper is Sherlock's ghost?" John didn't know what made him say that, but was relieved to her his comrade guffaw.

"He could probably sense a double agent by his shoe size."

John smiled, because that probably wasn't to far fetched a statement.

" Alright well you should probably get in there, we've kept him long enough."

John went in and shivered unnoticeably. Moran waved sarcastically at him.

"Hello Mr. Watson."

"Hello Sebastian. So you wanted to talk to me?" John gazed at him with intimidation.

"Oh yeah, I just wanted to say you're welcome."

John leaned back in his chair and sighed, "I think the words you're looking for are 'I'm sorry'."

"I'm not sorry, it's just a job. I didn't kill your friend or anything. I'm saying you're welcome because I didn't kill you."

"Well you would've," John said angrily, leaning forward. "If you're sick employer hadn't-"

"Hey, don't talk about him like that!"

"I'll talk about him however I want, he's the reason my friend is dead."

Moran looked offended but he also looked like he understood John's point, "To be fair, you're a reason he is dead as well."

John looked livid, "How do you figure?"

"Oh, well I thought he told when he called from the top. Told you why he did it."

John had really been wondering that as well. He knew that it wasn't because Sherlock was a liar, but for some reason he didn't try to figure it out. He didn't want to think about it.

"Why did he do it?"

The grey man leaned forward to whisper to the doctor, "Maybe I was being too harsh when I said you were a reason. In fact I'm a very big reason myself."

With sternness, John reiterated his previous question, "Why did he do it?"

"Because," Moran said in a deeper whisper. "If he had failed, I would have killed his best friend."

John smacked the table hard. Lestrade was uneasy on the other side of the two way mirror.

"That bastard, would it have been so hard to tell me that?!"

Moran started chuckling, "I'm sure Sherly had his reasons for doing his 'I'm a fraud' gambit. I like you John, I thought you'd get fuming with me, but instead you got angry at your dead friend. Very interesting."

Presumably dead, thought John. He didn't understand why he had thought that though.

"And also I thought you should know I will not be divulging the name of the person who hired me."

John put his hands in his pockets and gave a sardonic sneer towards Sebastian, "What if I told you it could be the difference between life and death for you?"

"I probably wouldn't care, in fact I don't."

"Would you care if I told you we met that other friend of your's?"

Sebastian's face dropped momentarily, "What friend is that?"

"The guard one."

His eyes widened, slightly afraid.

"We're three steps ahead of you moron," John said, and Lestrade came in.

"Very good John, we can take it from here."

"You're lying!" Shouted Moran, standing up. Lestrade put his hand on his gun in a threatening way, and handed over a manila folder with the other. Moran opened it quickly and the first picture was a mugshot of the particular guard. The sight of it made him angrily throw the entire folder across the room, revealing two other pictures that had been behind the first one.

"Also I should probably mention that we arrested your other comrades as well," Lestrade said. Moran didn't seem to care about that.

"Still don't want to tell us who you're working for?" John asked.

Moran looked dubious for a moment, but then acquiesced, "His mistress was in his will to get all his money yada yada yada and she hated him yada yada yada and the rest is history."

"Now was that so hard?" John zipped his coat up. "Can I go home now?" Lestrade had one of his officers give him a ride home.

When John was back in his flat, his emotions started to slurry together until they were a confusing brown. He was angry at Sherlock for making the world see him as a liar, but also touched by how he would have taken his life for him. He was angry at Moran but also relieved that all of Moriarty's men were locked up for good. And John was... Hopeful.

Sherlock would have known. He had to have known about what Moriarty intended to do, how he planned to end him. Sherlock figured out something the night they discovered Rich Brook, but John had never found out what it was. Somebody told him Mrs. Hudson had been shot.

"If anyone could have done it, it would have been Sherlock," John said out loud.

Yes, John was hopeful. He was hopeful that his friend hadn't died at all.

Somebody must have helped him. Molly maybe? She did act very strange after his death, not heartbroken, not even really sad. Just... Fake. Could it have been because she knew he wasn't actually dead? And Mycroft as well? He would have had the resources.

John remembered something else and punched the air. Sherlock had practically an army of homeless people that could have pulled off such a big scheme. It made sense, it fit together it...

John sighed. It could just be the denial coming back. This idea was going to eat him apart if he kept feeding it. He made some tea to calm down, called Mrs. Hudson for a nice friendly chat and then went to bed. He tried not to think about it, but he wanted so desperately for his theory to be true. When he finally did get some rest, he dreamt of Sherlock chasing a taxi.

The next day John woke up, still hopeful. He couldn't shake it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and dialed the number he couldn't bear to delete.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring. Beep.

Well that was obviously going to happen. John went for a walk.

He found himself at Baker Street before he knew it. He didn't know why he wanted to go back, but he thought he might as well visit Mrs. Hudson. When no one answered the door, he sat woefully on the ground. He watched the curtains rustle mysteriously in the empty house across the street. Maybe it wasn't empty anymore, how would he know. He sat for about five minutes until.

A black car pulled over on the side of the rode. John swore under his breath. Of course.

A very pretty woman beckoned him to come inside. He couldn't believe Mycroft took the thing about nostalgia seriously.

John arrived at the house after a very strange long route to get there and stopped short at the door when he heard raised voices. The wood was too thick for him to make anything out, but he was pretty sure it might have just been Mycroft on the phone. He decided to come in but he heard angry mumbling behind him.

"I'm here, don't worry," Mr. Hocksler was pocketing a phone, John assumed it was Mycroft on the other end. He almost tripped in surprise when he saw John. "Oh hello John, you're here early."

"Actually," John said. "I'm here late, Mycroft's driver took me on the scenic route apparently."

The awkward man chuckled a little. A squat well dressed man came up from behind him.

"How long is this going ta be man, I gots another appointment?" he said. Before Hocksler could answer John was getting his hand forcefully shaken. "Jack Beit, howwa ya? It's like fish bait but wid an 'e'."

John tried not to laugh.

"Won't be more than ten minutes, wait in the den Jack," Hocksler pushed him away. "You'll get your check."

Mycroft opened the door before John could ask what the hell that was about.

"Aw John hello, come sit with me," he beckon John over to the chairs by the fireplace. "Sorry Ian I'll be with you shortly."

He gestured for Ian to sit a bit out of the way in the big room, on a grey chair that matched the color of his hair.

"What do you want Mycroft?" John asked.

"You see John...I've recently befriended someone in your neighborhood."

John raised an eyebrow.

"I guess I should say, your old neighborhood," he said, meaning Baker Street. "And I told him to call if he ever saw anyone strange lurking around."

"Why?"

"Because Moriarty still had some stragglers that might have wanted to...cause trouble. He used to anyway, they're all behind bars now I guess."

John leaned back, "So you're spy friend thought I was a strange lurker?"

"Yes, but I knew it was you when he described you, so I sent a friend to pick you up."

John said nothing, he didn't like being watched.

"I know it's been six months, but I still think you should avoid visiting old memories."

"You think I'm in denial again is that it?" John asked and Mycroft said nothing. "Well you know what, maybe... I am."

John mussed up his hair. Why was it so hard to believe in Sherlock's death?

Mycroft seemed to understand what John was thinking, "My brother was the most alive man I knew. Death is a hard thing to believe sometimes."

"I've been racking theory after theory in my head, about how he could have faked it. Sometimes they make so much sense to me that... I don't know."

He sat for a moment in quiet. Mycroft stood up.

"I am confident that in time you'll accept it, and if that doesn't happen, you're probably crazy," he said jokingly.

"Or you're right," butted in Ian, who still looked quite upset. John smiled.

"Well I really hate to kick you out after that short time John, but I forgot that Mr. Hocksler was coming. I'll have Charles give you a ride back."

John agreed a little reluctantly. Mycroft shook his hand goodbye. John couldn't help think there was something strange about this short meeting. This time it took Charles five minutes to get back to Baker Street, but of course John had to remind him that he actually lived another ten minutes away.

He made tea at his flat and sat by the fire to think for a while. He tried reading a bit of a book but started reading between the lines as he daydreamed about the Chinese mafia.

I bet if I faked my death, thought John, Sherlock would figure it out in a day, and not have had to sit in a car so much.

Five minutes? Was that how long he had been sitting at 221b? It seemed that Charles knew how to get there just fine, but apparently like to take his own sweet time getting back. John couldn't think of a reason, but it was somewhat... Suspicious.

His phone sang his text tone, but he ignored it momentarily, as he let his mind wander.

Jack Beit? It sounded a little familiar. He thought he might have heard it somewhere. It couldn't hurt to look up. He picked up his laptop from the coffee table.

He had heard the name before, but what Jack was famous for didn't really make much sense in any context.

John tried to distract himself. He knew if continued with this ridiculous idea it would only cause problems. Maybe he was crazy.

Or right.

John sighed and finally picked up his phone. It was a text from Mycroft, strange in itself being as that Mycroft never texted when he could talk. John went to his inbox.

Will you be coming for tea this evening? MH

John was confused and then he got another one.

My apologies John, that was meant for Hocksler. MH

He read it once over and it seemed arbitrary and an honest mistake. But then he took a closer look and jumped up so quickly he knocked the lamp to the ground. He turned off the fire and grab all his stuff clumsily before stumbling out the door. He hailed a taxi and shouted Mycroft's address at him. The cabbie drove very carefully with his customer obviously very on edge.

John was finding it hard to contain his excitement. He had figured it out. He wasn't crazy at all.

He was right.

He threw money at the cabbie and jump out of the car.

"Keep the change!"

He threw the doors open without knocking, making one of Mycroft's butlers jump away in fright. He did the same with the sitting room doors and caught the elder Holmes mid tea-sip.

"John what are you doing?" Mycroft set his cup down and stood out of his chair. Ian did the same. John had to catch his breath before he said anything.

"Are you alright man? You look sick?" Hocksler approached him warily.

"Jack," breathed John. "Jack Beit."

"What about him?"

"He is pretty well known. I remember seeing him interviewed in a behind the scenes extra in a movie," he explained, and when the two men showed no response he added. "He's an award winning make-up artist."

"I know, he's a good friend of mine. You should see his work with prosthetics."

"I already have," he said. Then John stood up straight and inhaled deeply, catching his breath.

"Hocksler," was all he said.

"What?" Replied the man in question.

"Hocksler," he repeated. "Hocksler Sherlock Hocksler Sherlock."

Mycroft looked at the ground and grinned.

"It's an anagram you bastard."

Awkward hunchbacked little Ian stood up straight and took of the ratty fleece jacket that concealed a large pillow. He was now over six foot. He pulled of the grey curly fallacy to reveal the black curly reality. He then attempted to peel of the prosthetic mask. When he seemed to struggle a bit, John stepped forward to kindly help. He ripped it off like a band-aid.

RRRIIIIPPPP!

"AAAUUGGH!" Hockler's, or rather Sherlock's face was bright red as he put both his hands over it. John regretted nothing.

"I can't believe you just did that!" Sherlock's voice was back to its original deep self.

"I couldn't believe you fell off a hospital and died," John replied sardonically. "Obviously you two knew I'd figure it out and come back."

"What makes you think that?" asked still red Sherlock.

"There are three chairs around that table and three cups of tea."

"Very good John, I guess I did rub off on you a bit," Sherlock smiled that all to familiar smile. "And I'm sure you have a lot of questions for me."

John didn't nod or say anything. He just stood are stared with intensity at his resurrected friend.

Mycroft cleared his throat because it felt uncomfortable, "Let's have a seat shall we?"

"No!" John said loudly. Mycroft looked surprised. "Please, could you just...give us a moment alone?"

Sherlock nodded at his brother and Mycroft nodded back and left quietly, leaving John still staring.

Sherlock coughed, "Um, so do you have... Anything to say."

He didn't say anything.

"I... I really wished I could've... Included you in this John. It's just, they needed to believe it and the only way that could be possible would be if... You believed it."

Still, John was quiet.

"I spent ever waking moment trying to catch Moran so you I could safely tell you the truth. The only reason I didn't tell you as soon as it happened was because... I want you to get it by yourself, and you did."

Nothing.

"Please John, speak to me. I'm trying to get you to understand-"

John hugged him.

"Oh, um."

"You died," said John pathetically. "And now you're back. You listened to me for the first time."

Sherlock returned the hug, "I listened to you?"

"I asked you not to be dead."

"Heh heh, well I must admit it was very good advice."

John moved away from the hug chuckling. Before they knew it they were both laughing insanely.

"I bet it was you that turn in that guard wasn't it?"

"Of course it was," Sherlock said. "In fact about seventy percent of all the anonymous tips sent to Scotland Yard were from me over the last few months."

"Who came up with Ian Hocksler?" John asked.

"Actually Molly did. I've never appreciated that woman more. She's been very helpful."

This made John smile to see Sherlock a little more kind than he remembered.

"Out of curiosity," started John. "Was it you in that empty house across the street?"

"Good deduction John," Sherlock beamed with pride. "That's why you you were taken on a ludicrous route so I could get there before you and put on that horrendous mask."

John realized he was still holding the mask and it suddenly grossed him out so he dropped it.

"And I knew you'd go back to our old flat, especially after I heard about what Moran said to you," Sherlock said. He then added, "Lestrade was concerned so he spoke to my brother."

"Ah Sherlock," John sighed. "Always got to be a few steps ahead of me."

"Yes I do John. Did you like my text message idea? I knew if you saw my pseudonym in writing you'd unscramble it immediately."

"Genius."

Sherlock gave his oh-stop face, having sorely missed John's constant praise. John noticed this and realized he had really missed this brilliant smug man.

"It really is wonderful to see you Sherlock. It's been a hard six months."

Sherlock's face dropped and he put his hand on John's shoulder as a friendly gesture.

"I really am sorry that I put you through that. I didn't have that much of a choice, and...I would hate to have this affect the friendship that we used to have. The friendship I was glad we had."

John patted Sherlock's shoulder, "Still do have. I forgive you for saving my life."

Sherlock shrugged and took his hand off John, "I bet you're dying to know how I did it huh?"

John nodded, "I have some thoughts, but I'd like to know the whole scheme."

"Sounds like fun to me," said Sherlock. "I'll get Mycroft and we can explain it to you."

The detective started towards the door but John stopped him.

"Wait."

Sherlock waited.

"I just...wanted to say thank you."

"For what exactly?"

John gave him one more manly short hug, "For this one last miracle."

Sherlock smiled and said you're welcome sarcastically.


	2. Chapter 2

An idea is not a seed, it is a parasite.  
John had very recently curled himself tightly on his chair, wearing comfy clothes and watching the American movie Inception. He got bored and fell asleep.  
Normalcy had subtlety snuck its way back into the army doctor's life after the incident at Bart's. He had a stable job, he had a nice new place, he stayed in touch with old friends. He should have been happy, and maybe he was sometimes, but of course the memory still hung like an ugly wasp nest in the back of his mind. Sherlock had died.  
But the memory had changed from this morning, from its normal harsh reality to one that seems more like a bad dream. It was because of what Mycroft had told him earlier that day, when he was over for a very rare visit.  
"I take that you appreciate me calling you for once," Mycroft said with an awkward smile.  
"Yes, but I wouldn't have been too upset if your bloody black car had picked me up on my way to the market," replied John. "Nostalgia you know."  
Mycroft laughed, "None the less, I am glad you are doing well. We were all very concerned about you in those first months."  
It had been sixth months since Reichenbach. Mycroft was referring to a time where John had stayed in bed for a week straight and Molly had to quite literally go to his home and slap him out of it.  
"Yeah, the denial stage was tough but I'm out of that trench," John sipped his tea. "I just had to convince myself that your brother wasn't going to zombie his way out of his grave."  
Mycroft laughed uncomfortably, John obviously had developed a strain of Gallows humor, "Well if anyone would have the energy to pull that off, it would be my brother."  
They both smiled, but Mycroft wished he hadn't said that. Sherlock would definitely have the energy to cheat death, going by the fact that he was currently sleeping upstairs. The last thing he wanted was for John to feed off a small possibility that Sherlock survived.  
The idea didn't register to John until he was home lying in his bed. It was quiet and dark and Mycroft echoed in his mind.  
If anyone could have the energy to pull that off, it would be my brother.  
Of course he didn't think that Sherlock would actually zombie out his grave, that would be completely ridiculous. Yet he couldn't help a certain image bringing itself up behind his eyes. A certain plant.  
It was on the shoes of the man who kidnapped the two children. His old professor had told him something about it, something significant... What was that?  
He remembered and sat up quickly. It could make it seem like you had no pulse. Sherlock could have found some and used it to make it seem...  
What the hell is wrong with me? John thought. He was forgetting the little detail about Sherlock actually falling the length of the building. The little detail about his bloody face on the pavement.  
That thought made him shudder. He shrugged off the theory and tried to get some sleep, quite unsuccessfully.  
Molly invited him for lunch a week later. He was very surprised when she showed up in a shiny new Mazda 3.  
"Wow Molly, how'd you swing that?"  
Molly smiled sweetly, "I make more than you think John."  
Another memory flooded John's mind. Sherlock, Lestrade, and him were standing around a grey Mazda.  
"How much blood was on the seat?" Sherlock had asked Lestrade.  
"About a pint."  
But John remembered that it was exactly a pint. The man used his own blood to fake his own death. He wonder how much blood had been on Sherlock...  
"John? What are you thinking about?" Molly noticed him staring suspiciously into space.  
He snapped out of it, "Nothing, zoning out." He changed the subject back to her car.  
Once again John was in his bed, staring thoughtfully into the dark of his ceiling.  
Sherlock could have taken the plant and used a store of his own blood, stored somewhere on his person, and made it look as though...  
Why do I do this to myself? He turned on his side and sighed deeply. The fact was he saw it, he saw his friend jump and he saw him land, from beginning to end. Despite everything sherlock was, he was still a man, and no one could have survived that.  
Yet still something nagged incessantly with the continuity of that thought. Something was incorrect. But John ignored the nag, and tried yet again to fall asleep, failing miserably.  
On occasion, Lestrade would ask John to help them out. John usually did so with reluctance, but this time he felt a lot more eager. Lestrade was dealing with something strange.  
"Nobody heard gunfire, the door was locked from the inside, yet here we have a dead man, shot through the head."  
"Did you say the window was open?" John asked, and Greg nodded.  
"I think it's safe to assume that's where our bullet came from."  
"Right, but the only vantage point through that window is very far to get a shot this precise."  
John nodded, "So we must be dealing with a real professional. Most likely a hired professional."  
"If he is hired, he's the best money can buy. I've never known any criminal can shoot like that," Greg shook his head in disbelief. "A lot of people hate this man, and most of those people are rich and were at this party. We have a lot of suspects."  
"Maybe we should look at some pictures of wanted assassins, and maybe we'll recognize one here."  
Lestrade seem wary of that idea. But John picked out his phone.  
"I know someone that can get that for us." He phoned Mycroft.  
Mycroft was there in fifteen minutes, followed by his slightly hunchbacked record keeper who insisted on coming, "I understand your request, John, but what makes you think that one of Moriarty's old comrades would be behind this?"

"Because what else is an unemployed master sniper going to do in his free time other than freelance?" John stated. There was only three candid pictures. A large bald ruffian fellow, a tall homely female with ratty hair, and a blurry average looking blonde chap in aviators. The latter photo was not labelled with a name.  
"I'd put my money on this man," indicated Mycroft about the blonde man. "He was the most illusive of the men, we don't even know his name. All we have is this damn blurry photograph."  
"He was Moriarty's right hand man," the record keeper sounded like he had something lodged in his throat and his face moved stiffly and awkwardly.  
They kept the images as references and first took to interrogating the man's wife, who appeared to be in shambles. Her blubbering didn't get them any further along. They then asked about the pictures. The first three showed no sign of recognition in her puffy face. When they showed suspect number one, however, she glanced quickly into the small group of confused party goers standing by.  
"What? Do you recognize this man? Is he here?" Lestrade looked at her harshly.  
She jumped at his antagonistic outburst, "No, I just...for a moment... Thought he looked familiar but..."  
John looked into the group of people looking for the one feature he could truly recognize. Not a single person was blonde like the illusive assassin.

"Could be wearing a wig," said the record keeper, as if he read John's mind. John instantly began looking at the edges of everyone's hair.  
"I can't tell, he might not even be here."  
"The picture looked familiar," the record keeper said sternly to the wife, with a lot of control in his weird voice.  
"Who does it look like?"  
Two innocent and well dressed men exchanged uneasy glances.  
She looked horrified and mumbled, "Well no one really, he just had similar cheekbones. He honestly doesn't look like him."  
"WHO?!" Asked the keeper with baritone authority.  
"M-mister Count," she squeaked.  
People backed quickly from the confused man in question. He was average height and thick build, with black hair.  
"Excuse me?" Mr. Count looked offended. "Am I being accused of something?"  
She was right however, his features were quite similar to the man in the picture. John imagined sunglasses over his eyes and they were a match. He couldn't be sure though.  
Mycroft stepped forward quietly until he was in front of Count.  
"Would you like to know a secret?"  
"What? What is this?" Mr. Count looked ready to run out of there.  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "Mr. Hocksler and I are much better at finding out things than we let on." He then paused dramatically before saying, "Sebastian Moran." He had known the man's name over time.  
The man's eyes widened visibly but he still maintained his befuddlement, "Who?"  
Mr. Hocksler strode forward, back more noticeably hunched than before, "Quite possibly you, if I can get a look at your scalp." Before the man could even protest, Hocksler pulled the top of his head down to eye level, then forcefully pushed him away.  
"Just like I thought, your skin is black from the hair dye you so recently administered."  
Mister Count, or rather Moran, decided the best plan of action was to run for it. John tackled him before he got very far. He demanded to know where he hid his weapon. John scoffed at the cliché when he told him it was behind a bush.  
Defeated, the assassin complied with the army doctor who pushed him into Lestrade's police car. Sebastian sat with a silent smirk the entire way, obviously up to something.  
"I admired your gun," said Lestrade. "Very sophisticated silencer."  
"Oh thanks, you are too kind," Moran muttered sarcastically. "Asshole."

John turned around, "I'd keep quiet if I were you."

Sebastian laughed, "You know, your face looks different when it's not in my crosshairs."

"Aaahaa!" exclaimed John. "So you were our red laser friend at the pool."

"Guilty as charged," the criminal said ironically, making John chuckle.

That night was very restful for John, a dangerous criminal and advocate in his friends death was behind bars. He had a strange dream however.

John was driving a garbage truck. He got very tired and pulled to the side of the rode, next to St. Bart's. He started singing a hit song when suddenly...

Smack.

Sherlock had fallen outside the window, onto the sidewalk. John screamed, and the song he was whistling continued to play on the radio, quite loudly. He jumped into the passenger seat and pulled desperately at the handle, to get to his friend. The door wouldn't open, and the truck began to pull away on its own.

"NO!" John shouted and smacked the door with all his force. The truck kept driving though, pulling him further and further away. The music got so loud that...

John woke up to his radio alarm blaring.

It was such a strange dream to have, and he thought for a good ten minutes about its possible meanings. He replayed it a few times, as an attempt to not forget it. But he could help thinking he had derived it from an actual memory. A memory of...

That's it! He had see a garbage truck pull away from Bart's that terrible day. Why was he remembering it? Maybe he thought it was strange that the truck had left, considering a man had just killed himself right outside the window. Maybe...there was a reason he drove away from the scene... Maybe...maybe...

Stop it John. The man wasn't looking, he mustn't of seen and pulled out before he noticed people gather. And the most unarguable fact of the matter was that John had seen the entire fall.

But that didn't feel true either. He had seen the beginning of the plummet, and he had seen him on the sidewalk. It felt almost as if it were just his brain, filling in the gap in the middle because...

He hadn't seen the middle.

How could he have forgotten about the biker! That idiot kid that had the worst possible timing.

Or the best possible timing, depending on who's asking. But who else would be asking?

John spent the rest of his day concentrating hard on his theories. Alone, they were stupid, but as he pieced them together, he couldn't help but wonder...

It was very distracting. Only when Lestrade called him around 4 did he snap out of his daydreaming.

"Moran wants to talk to you."

"Oh goody," said John. "This should be interesting."

Moran's skin was dull and grey looking as he sat shivering in the interrogation room. The two men observed him through the two way mirror.

"I have something important to tell you before you go in there," Greg told John. John turned around.

"Apparently Moran had a good friend at the prison, a very helpful guard."

John furrowed his brow in confusion and Greg continued.

"We arrested that helpful guard yesterday because we found out an entire plot for a prison breakout between these two."

John smiled, "So that's why Seb here was so cooperative, he thought he'd be able to spring himself out under our noses."

"We're a good three steps ahead of this psycho, thanks to an anonymous tipper."

John felt smug and satisfied, and small bit happy knowing Sherlock would be proud.

"How much you wanna bet that tipper is Sherlock's ghost?" John didn't know what made him say that, but was relieved to hear his comrade guffaw.

"He could probably sense a double agent by his shoe size."

John smiled, because that probably wasn't to far fetched a statement.

" Alright well you should probably get in there, we've kept him long enough."

John went in and shivered unnoticeably. Moran waved sarcastically at him.

"Hello Mr. Watson."

"Hello Sebastian. So you wanted to talk to me?" John gazed at him with intimidation.

"Oh yeah, I just wanted to say you're welcome."

John leaned back in his chair and sighed, "I think the words you're looking for are 'I'm sorry'."

"I'm not sorry, it's just a job. I didn't kill your friend or anything. I'm saying you're welcome because I didn't kill you."

"Well you would've," John said angrily, leaning forward. "If you're sick employer hadn't-"

"Hey, don't talk about him like that!"

"I'll talk about him however I want, he's the reason my friend is dead."

Moran looked offended but he also looked like he understood John's point, "To be fair, you're a reason he is dead as well."

John looked livid, "How do you figure?"

"Oh, well I thought he told when he called from the top. Told you why he did it."

John had really been wondering that as well. He knew that it wasn't because Sherlock was a liar, but for some reason he didn't try to figure it out. He didn't want to think about it.

"Why did he do it?"

The grey man leaned forward to whisper to the doctor, "Maybe I was being to harsh when I said you were a reason. In fact I'm a very big reason myself."

With sternness, John reiterated his previous question, "Why did he do it?"

"Because," Moran said in a deeper whisper. "If he had failed, I would have killed his best friend."

John smacked the table hard. Lestrade was uneasy on the other side of the two way mirror.

"That bastard, would it have been so hard to tell me that?!"

Moran started chuckling, "I'm sure Sherly had his reasons for doing his 'I'm a fraud' gambit. I like you John, I thought you'd get fuming with me, but instead you got angry at your dead friend. Very interesting."

Presumably dead, thought John. He didn't understand why he had thought that though.

"And also I thought you should know I will not be divulging the name of the person who hired me."

John put his hands in his pockets and gave a sardonic sneer towards Sebastian, "What if I told you it could be the difference between life and death for you?"

"I probably wouldn't care, in fact I don't."

"Would you care if I told you we met that other friend of your's?"

Sebastian's face dropped momentarily, "What friend is that?"

"The guard one."

His eyes widened, slightly afraid.

"We're three steps ahead of you moron," John said, and Lestrade came in.

"Very good John, we can take it from here."

"You're lying!" Shouted Moran, standing up. Lestrade put his hand on his gun in a threatening way, and handed over a manila folder with the other. Moran opened it quickly and the first picture was a mugshot of the particular guard. The sight of it made him angrily throw the entire folder across the room, revealing two other pictures that had been behind the first one.

"Also I should probably mention that we arrested your other comrades as well," Lestrade said. Moran didn't seem to care about that.

"Still don't want to tell us who you're working for?" John asked.

Moran looked dubious for a moment, but then acquiesced, "The mistress was in his will to get all his money yada yada yada and she hated him yada yada yada and the rest is history."

"Now was that so hard?" John zipped his coat up. "Can I go home now?" Lestrade had one of his officers give him a ride home.

When John was back in his flat, his emotions started to slurry together until they were a confusing brown. He was angry at Sherlock for making the world see him as a liar, but also touched by how he would have taken his life for him. He was angry at Moran but also relieved that all of Moriarty's men were locked up for good. And John was... Hopeful.

Sherlock would have known. He had to have known about what Moriarty intended to do, how he planned to end him. Sherlock figured out something the night they discovered Rich Brook, but John had never found out what it was. Somebody told him Mrs. Hudson had been shot, and he never really found out who that was either.

"If anyone could have done it, it would have been Sherlock," John said out loud.

Yes, John was hopeful. He was hopeful that his friend hadn't died at all.

Somebody must have helped him. Molly maybe? She did act very strange after his death, not heartbroken, not even really sad. Just... Fake. Could it have been because she knew he wasn't actually dead? And Mycroft as well? He would have had the resources.

John remembered something else and punched the air. Sherlock had practically an army of homeless people that could have pulled off such a big scheme. It made sense, it fit together it...

John sighed. It could just be the denial coming back. This idea was going to eat him apart if he kept feeding it. He made some tea to calm down, called Mrs. Hudson for a nice friendly chat and then went to bed. He tried not to think about it, but he wanted so desperately for his theory to be true. When he finally did get some rest, he dreamt of Sherlock chasing a taxi.

The next day John woke up, still hopeful. He couldn't shake it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and dialed the number he couldn't bear to delete.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring. Beep.

Well that was obviously going to happen. John went for a walk.

He found himself at Baker Street before he knew it. He didn't know why he wanted to go back, but he thought he might as well visit Mrs. Hudson. When no one answered the door, he sat woefully on the ground. He watched the curtains rustle mysteriously in the empty house across the street. Maybe it wasn't empty anymore, how would he know. He sat for about five minutes until.

A black car pulled over on the side of the rode. John swore under his breath. Of course.

A very pretty woman beckoned him to come inside. He couldn't believe Mycroft took the thing about nostalgia seriously.

John arrived at the house after a very strange long route to get there and stopped short at the door when he heard raised voices. The wood was too think for him to make anything out, but he was pretty sure it might have just been Mycroft on the phone. He decided to come in but he heard angry mumbling behind him.

"I'm here, don't worry," Mr. Hocksler was pocketing a phone, John assumed it was Mycroft on the other end. He almost tripped in surprise when he saw John. "Oh hello John, you're here early."

"Actually," John said. "I'm here late, Mycroft's driver took me on the scenic route apparently."

The awkward man chuckled a little. A squat well dressed man came up from behind him.

"How long is this going ta be man, I gots another appointment?" he said. Before Hocksler could answer John was getting his hand forcefully shaken. "Jack Beit, howwa ya? It's like fish bait but wid an 'e'."

John tried not to laugh.

"Won't be more than ten minutes, wait in the den Jack," Hocksler pushed him away. "You'll get paid."

Mycroft opened the door before John could ask what the hell that was about.

"Aw John hello, come sit with me," he beckon John over to the chairs by the fireplace. "Sorry Ian I'll be with you shortly."

He gestured for Ian to sit a bit out of the way in the big room, on a grey chair that matched the color of his hair.

"What do you want Mycroft?" John asked.

"You see John...I've recently befriended someone in your neighborhood."

John raised an eyebrow.

"I guess I should say, your old neighborhood," he said, meaning Baker Street. "And I told him to call if he ever saw anyone strange lurking around."

"Why?"

"Because Moriarty still had some stragglers that might have wanted to ...cause trouble. He did anyway, they're all behind bars now I guess."

John leaned back, "So you're spy friend thought I was a strange lurker?"

"Yes, but I knew it was you when he described you, so I sent a friend to pick you up."

John said nothing, he didn't like being watched.

"I know it's been six months, but I still think you should avoid visiting old memories."

"You think I'm in denial again is that it?" John asked and Mycroft said nothing. "Well you know what, maybe... I am."

John mussed up his hair. Why was it so hard to believe in Sherlock's death?

Mycroft seemed to understand what John was thinking, "My brother was the most alive man I knew. Death is a hard thing to believe sometimes."

"I've been racking theory after theory in my head, about how he could have faked it. Sometimes they make so much sense to me that... I don't know."

He sat for a moment in quiet. Mycroft stood up.

"I am confident that in time you'll accept it, and if that doesn't happen, you're probably crazy," he said jokingly.

"Or you're right," butted in Ian, who still looked quite upset. John smiled.

"Well I really hate to kick you out after that short time John, but I forgot that Mr. Hocksler was coming. I'll have Charles give you a ride back."

John agreed a little reluctantly. Mycroft shook his hand goodbye. John couldn't help think there was something strange about this short meeting. This time it took Charles five minutes to get back to Baker Street, but of course John had to remind him that he actually lived another ten minutes away.

He made tea at his flat and sat by the fire to think for a while. He tried reading a bit of a book but started reading between the lines as he daydreamed about the Chinese mafia.

I bet if I faked my death, thought John, Sherlock would figure it out in a day, and not have had to sit in a car so much.

Five minutes? Was that how long he had been sitting at 221b? It seemed that Charles knew how to get there just fine, but apparently like to take his own sweet time getting back. John couldn't think of a reason, but it was somewhat... Suspicious.

His phone sang his text tone, but he ignored it momentarily, as he let his mind wander.

Jack Beit? It sounded a little familiar. He thought he might have heard it somewhere. It couldn't hurt to look up. He picked up his laptop from the coffee table.

He had heard the name before, but what Jack was famous for didn't really make much sense in any context.

John tried to distract himself. He knew if continued with this ridiculous idea it would only cause problems. Maybe he was crazy.

Or right.

John sighed and finally picked up his phone. It was a text from Mycroft, strange in itself being as that Mycroft never texted when he could talk. John went to his inbox.

Will you be coming for tea this evening? MH

John was confused and then he got another one.

My apologies John, that was meant for Hocksler. MH

He read it once over and it seemed arbitrary and an honest mistake. But then he took a closer look and jumped up so quickly he knocked the lamp to the ground. He turned off the fire and grab all his stuff clumsily before stumbling out the door. He hailed a taxi and shouted Mycroft's address at him. The cabbie drove very carefully with his customer obviously very on edge.

John was finding it hard to contain his excitement. He had figured it out. He wasn't crazy at all.

He was right.

He threw money at the cabbie and jump out of the car.

"Keep the change!"

He threw the doors open without knocking, making one of Mycroft's butlers jump away in fright. He did the same with the sitting room doors and caught the elder Holmes mid tea-sip.

"John what are you doing?" Mycroft set his cup down and stood out of his chair. Ian did the same. John had to catch his breath before he said anything.

"Are you alright man? You look sick?" Hocksler approached him warily.

"Jack," breathed John. "Jack Beit."

"What about him?"

"He is pretty well known. I remember seeing him interviewed in a behind the scenes extra in a movie," he explained, and when the two men showed no response he added. "He's an award winning make-up artist."

"I know, he's a good friend of mine. You should see his work with prosthetics."

"I already have," he said. Then John stood up straight and inhaled deeply, catching his breath.

"Hocksler," was all he said.

"What?" Replied the man in question.

"Hocksler," he repeated. "Hocksler Sherlock Hocksler Sherlock."

Mycroft looked at the ground and grinned.

"It's an anagram you bastard."

Awkward hunchbacked little Ian stood up straight and took of the ratty fleece jacket that concealed a large pillow. He was now over six foot. He pulled of the grey curly fallacy to reveal the black curly reality. He then attempted to peel of the prosthetic mask. When he seemed to struggle a bit, John stepped forward to kindly help. He ripped it off like a band-aid.

RRRIIIIPPPP!

"AAAUUGGH!" Hockler's, or rather Sherlock's face was bright red as he put both his hands over it. John regretted nothing.

"I can't believe you just did that!" Sherlock's voice was back to its original deep self.

"I couldn't believe you fell off a hospital and died," John replied sardonically. "Obviously you two knew I'd figure it out and come back."

"What makes you think that?" asked still red Sherlock.

"There are three chairs around that table and three cups of tea."

"Very good John, I guess I did rub off on you a bit," Sherlock smiled that all to familiar smile. "And I'm sure you have a lot of questions for me."

John didn't nod or say anything. He just stood are stared with intensity at his resurrected friend.

Mycroft cleared his throat because it felt uncomfortable, "Let's have a seat shall we?"

"No!" John said loudly. Mycroft looked surprised. "Please, could you just...give us a moment alone?"

Sherlock nodded at his brother and Mycroft nodded back and left quietly, leaving John still staring.

Sherlock coughed, "Um, so do you have... Anything to say."

He didn't say anything.

"I... I really wished I could've... Included you in this John. It's just, they needed to believe it and the only way that could be possible would be if... You believed it."

Still, John was quiet.

"I spent ever waking moment trying to catch Moran so

I could safely tell you the truth. The only reason I didn't tell you as soon as it happened was because... I wanted you to get it by yourself, and you did."

Nothing.

"Please John, speak to me. I'm trying to get you to understand-"

John pulled Sherlock's face in for a kiss. Sherlock retaliated momentarily but then gasped and push away.

"Oh, um John, I..." It was really the first time Sherlock had ever been kissed. "Why did you...?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry but I'm not really in my right mind right now. You died," said John pathetically, staring into the grey eyes of his beautiful friend. "And now you're back. You listened to me for the first time."

Sherlock was trying to maintain his breath rate, "I listened to you?"

"I asked you not to be dead."

"Heh heh, well I must admit it was very good advice."

John started chuckling. Before they knew it they were both laughing like they had almost a year ago in Buckingham Palace. When it ceased, it was actually Sherlock who gave John a hug. They embrace silently for a long time.

"I bet it was you that turned in that guard wasn't it?" John finally said into Sherlock's blazer.

"Of course it was," Sherlock said. "In fact about seventy percent of all the anonymous tips sent to Scotland Yard were from me over the last few months." John laughed and pull away slightly, one arm still around his friend's waist.

"Who came up with Ian Hocksler?" He asked.

"Actually Molly did. I've never appreciated that woman more. She's been very helpful."

This made John smile to see Sherlock a little more kind than he remembered. Sherlock's hand was still on John's shoulder.

"Out of curiosity," started John. "Was it you in that empty house across the street?"

"Good deduction John," Sherlock beamed with pride. "That's why you were taken on a ludicrous route so I could get there before you and put on that horrendous mask."

John realized he was still holding the mask and it suddenly grossed him out so he dropped it.

"And I knew you'd go back to our old flat, especially after I heard about what Moran said to you," Sherlock said. He then added, "Lestrade was concerned so he spoke to my brother."

"Ah Sherlock," John sighed. "Always got to be a few steps ahead of me."

"Yes I do John. Did you like my text message idea? I knew if you saw my pseudonym in writing you'd unscramble it immediately."

"Genius."

Sherlock gave his oh-stop face, having sorely missed John's constant praise. John noticed this and realized he had really missed this brilliant smug man.

"It really is wonderful to see you Sherlock. It's been a hard six months."

Sherlock's face dropped and he pulled him into an intimate hug once again.

"I really am sorry that I put you through that. I didn't have that much of a choice, and...I would hate to have this affect the friendship that we used to have. The friendship I was glad we had."

John patted Sherlock's shoulder, "Still do have. I forgive you for saving my life. And...I'm sorry about planting one on you earlier. I don't really know why I did that."  
Sherlock began to laugh again, his cheek resting on John's soft blonde hair, "Well I've put you through a lot of emotional turmoil haven't I? You don't really know what you're...feeling."  
"No...I really don't. Good deduction."  
Sherlock moved so he'd be face to face with the army doctor. He looked exactly the same, the man he remembered, the man he relied on. Sherlock whispered, "Don't think I haven't been through emotional turmoil too. I am human."  
John whispered back, "I know you have, and I know you are."  
"And I wouldn't mind, I guess," Sherlock started nervously. "If you...tried it again."  
John let out a surprised laughed, "Not something I'd ever expect the great consulting detective to say."  
Sherlock smiled, "I guess I'm not in my right mind either."  
It was the same charisma John remembered from what seemed like so long ago. They shared a look for a wonderful quiet moment then found their lips touching once again. It was a soft kiss and they pulled every bit of sadness and sorrow they bottled up over the last six months and put it into this. John shed a tear of happiness and Sherlock strengthened their embrace, crying as well. He had never expected anyone to bring out this side in him, and he couldn't have been happier that it was John. Maybe some part of them always knew they wanted this. And if not, they wanted it now, to be as close as they could after being separated for so long.  
When they finally pulled apart, John wiped away the tears from his friend and laughed a laugh of relief, "You've certainly changed, haven't you?"  
"Apparently," Sherlock gave John one more kiss, fast but equally passionate. They stared for another moment until John cleared his throat.  
"I think we've left Mycroft waiting long enough."

Sherlock shrugged and separated the hug, "I bet you're dying to know how I did it huh?"

John nodded, "I have some thoughts, but I'd like to know the whole scheme."

"Sounds like fun to me," said Sherlock. "I'll get Mycroft and we can explain it to you. And...we'll talk more about...this...later."

The detective started towards the door but John stopped him.

"Wait."  
Sherlock waited.

"I just...wanted to say thank you," He gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"For what exactly?"

John gave him one more hug, "For this one last miracle."

Sherlock smiled and said you're welcome sarcastically.


End file.
